“Why did you not send and tell me how ill you were?” burst forth Mr. Crosse, forgetting how exceedingly ill such a procedure would have accorded with his own line of holding aloof in condemning superiority.
She shook her head. “I might, had things been as they used to be. But people do not care to come near me now.”
“I am going in the ship, Mr. Crosse. I am going to ride upon an elephant and to have parrots.”
He laid his hand kindly upon the chattering child: but he turned to Maria, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What shall you do with her? Shall you send her out without you?”
The question struck upon the one chord of her heart that for the last day or two, since her own hopeless state grew more palpable, had been strung to the utmost tension. What was to become of Meta—of the cherished child whom she must leave behind her? Her face grew moist, her bosom heaved, and she suddenly pressed her hands upon it as if they could still its wild and painful beating. Mr. Crosse, blaming himself for asking it, blaming himself for many other things, took her hands within his, and said he would come and see her in the morning: she seemed so fatigued then.
But, low as the question had been put, Miss Meta heard it; heard it and understood its purport. She entwined her pretty arms within her mamma’s dress as Mr. Crosse went out, and raised her wondering eyes.
“What did he mean? You are coming too, mamma!”
She drew the little upturned face close to hers, she laid her white cheek upon the golden hair. The very excess of pain that was rending her aching heart caused her to speak with unnatural stillness. Not that she could speak at first: a minute or two had to be given to mastering her emotion.
“I am afraid not, Meta. I think God is going to take me.”
The child made no reply. Her earnest eyes were kept wide open with the same wondering stare. “What will papa do?” she presently asked.